An Angel's Eloquence
by CooQuackCluck
Summary: Two years after the Opera Populaire's destruction, Erik is finally reverting back to his old habits of haunting the now-reconstructed building. He is almost content, until Christine is suddenly brought back into his life. Erik's POV.


Welcome to the first chapter of my lovely 'Phan Phic'. I hope you'll enjoy it.  
As far as any before-reading info, there really isn't a whole lot. It's fairly explanatory. And I don't like delving too deeply into details, since I tend to ramble.  
Anyways. It takes place two years after the Opera Populaire's destruction, and is told from Erik's POV. Which is very entertaining to write.  
So, so. Please enjoy.  
Reviews are greatly appreciated, while flames will be used to toast my marshmallows. ;)

* * *

I wasn't an Angel.

No matter the amount of conviction behind my indulgence of belief, I knew, even before the occurrences of the Opera House, and my time spent with Christine, that I was no Angel. Never. I only ever _dreamt_ of such splendor; it seemed the only way I was ever able to live how I so desperately desired.

I traveled the path of a lifetime with a perfect face, retracing steps that had been so dismal before. My face hurt with the grin it constantly bore, and my spirits soared while I wandered effortlessly through the happenings of every day life.

To be appreciated, and not feared…To be a whole person…To be free.

That is what I dreamt of.

But that is all it was, and all the memories I'd created for myself ever were. Dreams.

Memories I cherished had never existed. I formed them inside myself, created, analyzed, and locked them away. My thoughts were the only solace to my tortured mind, a mind so contorted, twisted, and confused that visits to the place I had imagined were frequent and long.

These journeys were not without residual pain, however. After such bouts of wistfulness, I would become so fraught with grief, desire, and general hatred for every account of my pitiful existence that a certain madness would overtake me, and I would cry for hours in a haze of irrepressible sorrow.

I was no Angel. If anything, I was a madman.

I wandered slowly among the charred remains of my now destroyed life, aware of the chill breeze that swept briskly through the gaping holes in the Opera Populaire's ruined walls and tugged gently at my bedraggled hair.

It rushed past my face, and I shuddered slightly. The feeling of cool air against my entirely exposed face was unnerving, and not at all pleasing. If anything it felt sickening; the sensation felt exactly the same as it did on the side of my visage _not_ constantly shrouded by a mask. How was this fair? Both sides of my face felt entirely equal. And yet from the outside, the difference was apparent enough to earn hatred from the entire world. Myself included.

Broken glass crunched beneath my shoes, and I dropped my gaze to peer aimlessly along the floor, my eyes flicking vaguely from melted candle-holders to burned remains of books and papers.

The wind picked up once more, and I shivered despite myself, my breath misting before me only to be pulled away in the gale. Abruptly to my right, a smoldering door fell free from its hinges, crashing loudly to the floor while punctuated by a cloud of fine gray ash. I regarded it warily, turning slowly as I noted which room the passage led to.

Christine Daae's dormitory now gaped open, and the smoking depths seemed to call forth to me; a silent whisper of mystery that enticed my fatigued form.

Sighing heavily, I wandered toward the abandoned room, stepping in through the doorway and glancing fretfully around. The walls had been almost entirely eaten away by the flames hours before, and gray sky shone down at me, where the ceiling had once hidden the heavens entirely from view. I noticed that the mirror-door was still upright, but the glass had shattered, and all that remained was the golden frame. A mere shell of what the object used to have been.

The site seemed somewhat fitting for my current frame of mind, and I took a mild sense of comfort in this.

And beyond the vacant entrance, the dank passage still loomed, pathway to my underground depths, which had remained relatively unchanged since the fire's start. The abundance of rock and water alike had seen to that. The gaping channel, so dark and depressing, for once seemed to blend in perfectly with the way the Opera House looked.

Ironic, I suppose.

Glancing about the room, my gaze lingered on Christine's vanity, now completely destroyed. I closed my eyes and imagined the many times she surveyed herself in that mirror, her large brown hues traveling over each perfect line presented before her. She, of course, didn't see herself in the same sense that I did, however.

I opened my eyes, a distant longing echoing in my heart that somehow, perhaps, everything would have returned to the way it was, and that she would be seated in front of me, pleased to see her Angel of Music returning to her again.

Her Angel…

I smiled bitterly, but the expression flickered and vanished before it had even settled into my features. Smiling, however sarcastic, simply did not feel appropriate.

All at once, I collapsed to the floor, my hands leaping to my chilled skin. Trembling all over, I clutched helplessly at my face, tugging fretfully at my hair as sobs shook my entire body.

It had to be like this. I suppose it was inevitable. It had to have ended somehow, and however much I refused to accept the end result, I should have anticipated something similar. She could never love me. No one could. I should have expected it since the day I became aware of what love was, and the fact that I was never shown any form of it.

Shaking my head, I stood and clenched both hands into fists, before striding toward the open passageway and down into the darkness without a backward glance.

It was late in the day when I noticed the note sitting atop my dusty organ. Not that the time of day mattered in any way; I really had no grasp of it, hidden so far below the earth's surface. I had been withdrawn into my writing, and a sort of contentment had settled across my spirit; a feeling extremely foreign, though not at all unwelcome.

The scratch of the quill was the only audible sound in my surroundings besides the faint music from the Opera House that wafted occasionally in the air. Only recently had they finally begun using the now-rebuilt building, and though the first hum of actual melody instead of hammering and other such racket sent me into a state of mild shock, my ears soon rekindled their old love for music. Now, as I sat in my near-comfortable state, I paused from my writing to glance up, a ponderous expression on my face as I searched for correct wording to complete the thoughts drifting through my mind.

My gaze happened to glide across my long-unused organ, and I noticed something perched atop it. Eyes narrowed, I surveyed the object with mild confusion and apprehension; surely no one had come to place an envelope upon the aged structure?

Tensing slightly, I glanced furtively around my quarters, as though expecting to see a figure creeping stealthily away from me. When no movement caught my eyes, I refocused my attention to the thing which so caused my bewilderment. Perhaps I had left it there…?

Shaking my head, I stood and placed my parchment on my seat, slowly setting the quill atop the papers. I had not left anything on the organ. How could I, having not touched it since my return to the depths of the Opera House two years ago.

I strode briskly toward the grand instrument, coated in a layer of fine dust that dulled its sleek, ebony exterior. Slowing to a halt, I leered down at the envelope, which seemed so small and insignificant atop the magnificent piece of artistic inspiration from ages long past.

Still though, I could not deny the shock I bore at the sight of the message, and my hand shook slightly as I reached for it. Scrutinizing the sachet with calculating eyes, I slowly broke the seal and retrieved the parchment from within, unfolding it and eyeing the elegant handwriting with interest.

_It has been a long time. _

_And I suppose you shall thank me for the absence of disturbances to your domain. _

_Perhaps, if you can bring yourself to it, you may find some time to survey the new voice talents for our future opera performances. _

_I hope to see you soon, Erik._

_Mme. Giry_

I almost smiled. Of course it was her. Who else would descend into the darkness with such sure footsteps so as not to fall prey to my assortment of traps? I folded the page slowly, replacing it neatly inside its envelope and setting it back onto the organ.

Turning away, I gazed thoughtfully across the misty water of the underground lake. My mind was in a state of slight turmoil, which was a stark contrast to the calm of my exterior demeanor.

Return to them…

I felt strangely mollified that I was actually wanted somewhere. Even though it appeared before me in a more businesslike sense, I could not believe that Mme. Giry wasn't also discreetly interested making sure I was well…

Mildly flattered, I tried to cast away my doubts into oblivion. Why not take this brief moment of appreciation and ascend into the world once more?

Unfortunately, it was easier said than done. For in my ascent, it would return to me the memories I had worked so long to rid myself of. My life from ages past was already flooding back to me, as was the obsession I strained to forget…

"Christine…"

But she was gone. She had abandoned me with that fool of a boy. He said that he loved her; how ignorant his words were! He knew nothing of love. Let him spend his years hiding in the darkness, fixed on the one person who would grant him the ability to make his music live and only then, perhaps, he may have a flicker of a glimpse.

But no.

He relied on some vague childhood memories to guide him into blind adoration of the one who I so desperately longed for. How dare he?

For a moment, I felt the familiar sensation of blind rage boiling up from the depths of my soul…A feeling I had experienced quite frequently before. But now, the consciousness was repulsive to my current being, and I forced myself to push it from my thoughts. It wouldn't change anything for me now. There was nothing I could do.

Forgetting her was impossible…But I would try my best to at least put her from my mind.

For now, I reasoned, I may as well take a look at what was stirring up within the Opera House. As much as I disliked the idea of owing gratitude to anyone, I could not deny that Mme. Giry _had_ taken my consideration into account in stopping any trespassers from entering my domain. I felt I should at least repay her for that.

I turned away from the water, slipping quickly into the back room. If I planned on reverting to my old habits, I would have to at least _look_ the part…

Moments later, I was carefully surveying myself in the cracked glass of my mirrors. It was an essentially pointless task, as they were now nearly useless, but still I felt I cut a rather dashing figure, my dark hair lying smoothly atop my head. I myself was clothed in an entirely black wardrobe, which gave me brief glimpses of nostalgia that were rather entertaining.

With a slight spasm of annoyance however, I could see the vaguely distinguishable side of my face which caused such loathing, and I made a silent agreement that I would have to shroud it once more.

I had not worn the mask since my destruction of the Opera Populaire.

I slowly marched back behind the curtains, and immediately my eyes locked upon the object, where it lay abandoned upon the floor. Alone, yet not at all forgotten. I stooped to retrieve it with quivering hands, and held it quietly before me. In replacing it upon my face, I knew that I would be revitalizing all that I used to have been. Was I willing to make such a choice?

Shutting my eyes, I nodded, and slowly brought the smooth material to my face.

As it always had, it molded perfectly to my skin, feeling cool and almost soothing against the flesh.

My eyes snapped open. All at once, every thought; every facet of my previous being came rushing back to me in a blur. I felt rejuvenated; reborn. I sensed my previous demeanor of secrecy, longing, passion and obsession…all soaring back into my persona once more.

And the music…

I was filled with the melody of song, and I could hardly believe that I'd lived so long in the absence of it. Christine may be gone now, but it didn't mean I was doomed to live without my music…

My very soul seemed to soar; suddenly I hungered to explore the rafters of the Opera House; to revisit old hiding places and passageways; and if they were no longer there, to create and discover new ones. With a flash of exhilaration, I fled from my quiet domain, near-silent footsteps traveling over aged stone as I returned to the surface once more. My cape rippled behind my stride, and I felt a smirk tugging at my lips.

The Phantom of the Opera had returned.

* * *


End file.
